


Denigration

by demiyurgos



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Gen, Gun Violence, Original Character Death(s), Riots, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demiyurgos/pseuds/demiyurgos
Summary: But what happens when such a simple cause, the basic human need to survive and live their lives to the fullest was met by the perverse agendas of politicians? When students carrying bags and papers without any protective gear were met by police officers with a complete urban riot gear?Death.
Kudos: 4





	Denigration

**Author's Note:**

> this one shot was inspired by the recent mass protesting in my country. had a hard time believing that in this modern day human rights still aren't a universally agreed upon concept, so i cope by making jason kill the chief of police.
> 
> so, uh... enjoy i guess???
> 
> as per usual, feedback and comments are appreciated!

The night was peaceful, silent. Stars faintly twinkle above the clouded sky in a faint cacophony of lights that was complemented by the flicker of the neon boards, street lamps, and headlights below. On the streets, the number of cars that roamed to and fro was uncharacteristically small.

Even so, most of them were dominated by squad cars with sirens blaring through the chilling night air as papers and pamphlets hovered down from the overhead crossing above and unto the concrete. Amongst posters, torn clothes, and broken sign posts they found their resting place. A relic that no museum will remember. A memory that people in power would desperately try to conceal.

Earlier that day, students had gathered in front of the Parliament Building to protest. To fight for their rights. Their bodies against the scorching heat of the sun and the numbing cold of water cannons. Eyes reddened due to tear gas strikes, bones broken after a clash with the law enforcement officers.

That was the price of democracy. The amount that someone had to pay if they wanted their voices to be heard by the corrupt elite that the system had made them choose. It wasn't cheap, not by any means. But it was  **_worth it._ ** A few broken bones and a risk of blindness due to the toxicity of an expired gas meant  **_nothing_ ** in comparison to freedom. In comparison to actually  **_preventing_ ** someone's  **_human rights_ ** to be  **_robbed_ ** by the elite.

But what happens when such a simple cause, the  **_basic_ ** human need to survive and live their lives to the fullest was met by the perverse agendas of politicians? When students carrying bags and papers without any protective gear were met by police officers with a complete urban riot gear?

**_Death._ **

The death of the oppressed. The death of people who came to ask for their rights without carrying a single weapon on their person. The death of the innocent that had only reacted because the oppression that they've endured had broken through their last barrier of patience.

That night, the streets were silent. A curfew had been put in order. 

Anyone that was caught outside past the designated time would be shot on site, so said the President. A man from humble origins who seemed to have forgotten what his campaign promises were.

The Fairview Hotel, however, was different. A contrasting view to the bleak, grey concrete, it was bustling with life. Cars pulled up on its lobby, opening their doors to the country's rich and famous. Those who had the power to improve people's lives through their access and influence, but chose to remain silent or join in on the cause that would only be beneficial to them.

Upon their arrival, each member of that unspoken caste was greeted by a pair of bell boys that would immediately offer their help to carry the suitcases up to the fancy suit they have booked for the evening. Boys who couldn't finish their education because the system wouldn't allow them to, unless they had enough money to pay them.

A black Aston Martin Vanquish made its way to the lobby. The sound of its modified engine was able to drown out any others, asserting a sense of dominance upon the other vehicles.

The door opened and out stepped a young American man that had been making the trends as of late. Jason Todd himself, owner of the Iceberg Lounge. A man who,  **_somehow_ ** , managed to acquire Oswald Cobblepot's  _ pièce de résistance _ and drove away his shareholders.

"Don't worry, boys." Mr. Todd said in refusal to the bellboys' offer to help him with his duffle bag. Even looking at them gave Jason memories of his childhood. Days spent under the skies of Gotham, bare feet against the cold and wet concrete. "I travel light."

When one grew up with the streets, they became one with it. Their minds were moulded by the concrete, their bodies forged by the cold. Conscience numbed by the stench of dog shit and the rotting bodies of people that had fallen as a victim of crime. Eyes blurred by the constant stream of tears and the occasional blood trickling from the temple. The trembling hands facing upwards, begging for the mercy of the privileged and the wealthy to no avail.

It became life, and life became  **_survival_ ** .

And in those dark moments, those desperate days seen through a vision of Hades and death, they found themselves an enemy. Something to fight against. Something whose actions perpetually endangered their existence; threatening to obliviate it.

No matter how hard someone tried to separate themselves from the streets, no matter how far the distance they travelled or how thick the layers of repression they put to cover the fact, you can never take the streets off the individual.

Those bitter memories of questionable actions in the name of survival had been etched deep within the crevices of consciousness, emblazoned on every corner of the mind. The images of repression done by the ones that were supposed to protect them kept on coming back; haunting them.

Jason immediately took a left near the receptionist desk and took the emergency flight of stairs to the sixth floor of the building. If his calculations were true, the process would take him the entirety of six minutes. Considerably faster and with less hassle than an elevator trip.

As he kept going up, his mind ran the numbers and possibilities tirelessly. Making calculations after calculations on the many variables and happenstances that would be involved in this mission. He may disagree with Batman on what to make of criminals, but one thing was certain:

_ Failure to prepare is preparing to fail. _

And this time, for the sake of the fifty students that had been nabbed for nothing more than voicing their discontentment towards the regime, and for the two that had been shot dead, he  **_would not fail_ ** .

"Wing. How're things on your end?"

Asked the outlaw through the private communications network he had established for his trusted colleagues as he pushed the door to a staff only access room that would grant him the private space above the main floor. One where he could easily plant his gun and wait for the precise moment to shoot with little to no interference. 

Jason had recently lost one of his colleagues due to a difference of vision, one might say. And another to a much more complicated event he'd rather distant himself from.

"Smooth. All according to plan, Boss." 

Replied Wingman, someone who had been helping him with his career for a while now. Although his  **_true_ ** identity still remains a mystery, he had proven himself to be quite beneficial to Jason's cause. 

"Your target will arrive in T-minus 3 minutes. You've got a short window once they do."

"Alright. Thanks, Wing." Jason answered as his hands undid the zipper of his duffle bag. From inside, he retrieved a muzzled Barrett M82 and promptly set up its stand. End of the gun poking through the gaps between the railings. "And my evac?"

"Airborne. Two minutes ETA upon retrieve request."

"Good. Now let's get the party started."

By the time the clock struck nine, the esteemed guests of the night began to flock the main floor of the building. Immediately groups of people gathered 'round the slot machine like vultures around a dead animal. Like maggots, they surrounded the poker table, creating an incessant and unpleasant commotion.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Jason mumbled to himself as he assessed the situation. All of the people down there played a role in the recent protests. The bald man wearing tribal cloth was the Minister of Higher Education and Research who threatened to penalize any university that allowed their students to  **_fight_ ** for their  **_rights_ ** .

The woman with the wide smile who kept shaking the hands of everyone she came across, as if she had no grudges against them, was a "human rights activist" that, quite uncharacteristically and suspiciously remained quiet during the whole ordeal. Hell, upon questioning she told everyone to remain neutral and let the situation play out on its own. If one were to say that those actions reeked the stench of privilege, her family's history would agree with them.

All those people deserve  **_Hell_ ** , Jason knew this, and their time would eventually come. The crimes they've committed would one day lead him to them, but not tonight. Ending the life of the man that had taken others' in the protest that ensued was his top priority. The one thing that was on his mind.

And who else would it be besides the Chief of Police?

A burly, bald man who spent his days doing God knows what inside his ivory tower while chaos and crime ran rampant in the streets of his capital city and country. The man who refused to act accordingly when zealots from a religious group burned down the place of worship that belonged to the minority. He was  **_also_ ** the man who instructed the use of  **_lethal force_ ** against a mass of  **_unarmed students_ ** , and said that it was perfectly fine for law enforcement agencies to violate human rights when the time called for it.

"Wing, you sure he's coming?"

"Yes, Boss. His name is on the list."

A sharp hum escaped the outlaw's mouth as he kept his sniper rifle steady. It was common amongst people with power to act as though time itself would literally freeze for them. They thought that their money had control over more things than it actually did.

After a few long minutes of waiting and recalibrating his sniper rifle, the man of the hour finally entered the vicinity. The best trained and most loyal armed guards surrounding every side of him, allowing virtually no one to come close. That's what elites do, Jason mused to himself. They created distance and separation with the people that they were supposed to empower.

"Boss, all yours." Wingman said through the comms. "Good luck."

There was no answer from the Red Hood as his eyes saw through the scope of the sniper. A classic Star of David formation: one man on each side of the center, eight in total. In this particular case, he had observed, a big gap would appear between the northern and northwestern point due to one of the guards having to limp due to a broken joint. It took the two men precisely three seconds to close the distance between each other.

Talia taught him how to dismantle formations like this in under two minutes, but that wasn't the goal.

These henchmen, despite the cruel acts that they have committed to civilians, were nothing more than pawns to the elites wicked games. People who had no other choice but to comply. And their time hadn't arrived yet.

His fingers curled against the  **_trigger_ ** as he inhaled deeply. Though beneath him was an ocean of cheerful and carefree voices, Jason had isolated himself in his own chamber of silence. A state of mind where he simply refused to acknowledge any other stimuli that weren't important to the task at hand.

Three seconds. A short time, indeed, but one that he needed to capitalize on nonetheless.

As the Chief of Police stopped to greet the Ministry of Higher Education, the gap presented itself to him. An opening most people wouldn't notice. Nothing too big, but enough for him to slide a bullet through.

At that  **_very moment_ ** , his pointer moved backwards and pulled the trigger. A clicking sound broke the silence around him as the custom-made bullet slid across the barrel and shot downwards in a horizontal motion towards its target.

Three.

Two.

One.

_ SPLAT! _

The unmistakable and sickening sound of steel going through brain matter rang and silence immediately fell upon the room followed by the shrill scream of men and women alike. They didn't act in such an unruly manner because of sadness or empathy with the fate that had befallen one of their colleagues.

No, in their collective yet individualistic screams were pure terror and shock. The realization that there are forces that even their mountains of money couldn't keep them safe from. An entity lurking within the corners of their glamorously lit rooms and the high ceilings of their conference halls; one that wouldn't shrivel or cower upon seeing their repressive actions.

That night, the elites of that small country; those who had built their wealth upon the dead bodies of the poor and drank the tears of the oppressed like fine wine were met with something,  **_someone_ ** who  **_will retaliate._ **

"Wing. Phase one accomplished."  Jason spoke through the communications link as he disassembled his sniper rifle and zipped his bag again.  "I need a bird. Southwest. Two blocks. Gonna be there in five."

"Noted, Boss. Bird inbound. Preparing to wait for three minutes."

With an escape route planned in mind, Jason opened the upper hatch that would lead him to the roof. Once he was out of the building, he was no longer a man. Instead, he had become a nameless shadow. An anonymous being that had shown the people of a small country that even one person could resist and fight against the corrupt regime.

When the morning news dropped, there would be no mentions of the Red Hood. The  **_scourge of Gotham_ ** would be nowhere within the perimeters of that country. Instead, there will be talks of a mysterious sniper that ended the life of the Chief of Police; that shot the symbol of repression against the people and the weak on the head.

There would be a mass awakening and a rejuvenation of the students' spirit to protest another day. To keep shouting for those whose voice had been silenced. To walk the streets for those who had been unjustly kept from doing so.

And most of all, there would be a denigration of the elites. No one would see them as gods with iron fists anymore. They would see them as who they truly were:

**_degenerates who can be shot dead, after all._ **


End file.
